


While They Dance On A Pin

by shirleypositive72



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:58:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirleypositive72/pseuds/shirleypositive72
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam, Dean, and Jane have been on the road almost constantly since Dean's return from Hell. They're finding Seals, finding danger, finding out each other's secrets. But it's what they find when they open the door to one more motel room that sends Dean back into his darkest moments. An OC's experience of episode 4x16, On the Head of a Pin. Sequel to "That Picture".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's Nice To Be Needed

**Author's Note:**

> This is (OC) Jane Downey’s view of “On The Head of A Pin”. The sequel to “That Picture”. It isn’t strictly necessary to have read “That Picture” or to have seen this episode of Supernatural, but neither would hurt. Thanks to LilyBolt for the episode suggestion. I own neither Supernatural nor the men who populate that universe.

“You can sit up front, Jane,” Sammy told me.

Those were the last words spoken among the three of us today. It’s been hours.

The saying is that silence is deafening. I don’t think that’s right. There is never true silence. There’s a buzz underneath the quiet; that’s silence. I can hear every bit of it pushing against my eardrums. Or feel it, rather. Beneath the rumble of the engine, the even hum of the tires on cold asphalt, the hiss of the heat pouring from the vents, the light patter of the rain against glass, is the weight of the unspoken. It is heavy,all that is left unsaid, pressing down on all three of us with a force that makes taking a deep breath impossible.  
Conversation is not a viable option for filling the roaring void. My God, what could we possibly say? Which cheerful memory could we share with each other to lighten the mood? In the four and a half months since Dean was pulled from Hell, there has been job after job, monster after monster, black and blue bruises on top of yellowed ones; all of it covered liberally in demon blood and angel feathers. 

Sam and Dean have faced everything from familiar ghosts who were revealed to be harbingers of the apocalypse, to time travel, to black and white movie monsters, to feral humans living in the walls of a Midwestern farmhouse. There was a shit-just-got-real Halloween and a Yorkie that threatened Dean’s life. There was a red-haired fallen angel who took a little too much interest in my man, and a Siren who came between my boys. Sam banged Sharon Stone in the middle of Basic Instinct, and Dean was asked for his safe word. They’ve fought Hell’s chief torture master, been hounded by angels of the Lord, and raced to stay one step ahead of Lilith and her campaign to break the Seals that lead to the end of the world. 

The boys both learned new magic tricks, they hunted for strippers bearing Disney princess names, a whistle made Dean a high school gym class god, and Sammy was killed - then unkilled - by a wishing well that thought it had jokes. Bobby blasted away at witnesses, spoke Japanese, and stuck Dean with a shiny blade. I became a cheerleading coach for a hot minute and met Mary Winchester. We all had our childish notions of benevolent guardian angels destroyed, replaced by a much less comforting reality. Dean revealed secrets of torturing and being tortured in Hell, Sam kept his own secrets and lies to himself, Castiel remained an unpredictable enigma, I struggled to find my place, and Bobby worried about us all. It’s been an eventful, stressful, tension-filled time.

And then we went to Greybull, Wyoming.

We battled Alistair, teacher of demon interrogation and terror . We rescued Tessa, Dean’s personal Reaper buddy who is apparently not very good at her job. We sent a very awesome dead kid into the light. We saved a Seal.

And we got Pam killed.

Our snarky psychic and devoted Ramones fan, our inappropriate threesome-offering buddy: dead. And this time, we know what happened to her was our fault. Neither Castiel nor an ill advised seance was anywhere near this one. We called her in; even after she asked us to leave her out of this Seal business, we guilted her into helping us again. The demons drew blood, but the blame lies at our feet.

So now we sit in the Impala as it carries us to the next destination sure to be as full of doubt and danger as any other destination in our recent past. Sam and Dean changed back into their street clothes before we left the funeral home. Unused to following the civilian rites of death, they nonetheless went along with the too-formal rituals with little complaint for as long as they could. Handsome and stoic in their FBI suits, they paid their last respects to a friend. Both would have much preferred to send her off on a hunter’s pyre. 

I, on the other hand, remain in my long black dress, purchased just for the occasion. As saddened as I truly am by Pamela’s death, no matter how much I disliked her when we first met, I’m holding on to this small window of normalcy. Wearing black, gathering with a large crowd of mourners, wasting money on flower arrangements the deceased cares nothing about, scattering a handful of dirt in the grave - this is the most normal thing we’ve done in recent memory. This is what the rest of the world does when someone dies. They cry, they bury them, and they gather for casserole afterward. We did those things. We played along with the charade that we existed in a world that wasn’t ending bloody. And now we’re driving on.

Sam decides to roll the thunder of conversation across the dark calm before this storm. 

“Ruby’ll meet us outside Cheyenne. She’s been tracking some leads." At the sound of grunts of frustration coming from the front seat, he tries a more diplomatic approach. “Look, I know she’s not exactly on either of your Christmas lists, but if she can help us get to Lilith-”

“Man, work with Ruby, don’t. I don’t really give a rat’s ass.”

“What’s your problem?”

“Pamela didn’t want anything to do with this, and we dragged her back into it, Sam.”

“She knew what was at stake.”

“Yeah, saving the world. And we’re doing such a damn good job of it.”

“Dean,” I whisper, grabbing his hand, trying to soothe him.

“I’m tired of burying friends.”

“Look. We catch a fresh trail-” Sam begins. Dean cuts him off.

“We follow it. I know. Like I said, I’m just getting tired.”  
“Well, get angry!”

I decide to stay quiet. I already know there is nothing to be said that will do a damn bit of good. We reach the latest horrible hotel room in the pitch black of early morning. All I can think about is pulling on my comfortable sweats and wrapping myself around my warm man. After the hell of the last few days, I need to be surrounded by something good. His arm around my shoulders pulling me close to him might be an indication that he feels the same way.

“Home, crappy home.” Dean says as Sam opens the door. We realize immediately that something good is not to be.

“Winchester and Winchester.” Uriel, with Cas, is staring at us, waiting impatiently for us to get in the door.

“Oh, come on!” Dean throws his duffel across the room, but he keeps his arm around me. Protective at every turn.

“You are needed,” the imposing angel of destruction continues.

“Needed? We just got back from needed!” Dean is fuming.

“You mind your tone with me.”

“No, you mind your damn tone with him,” I tell the smug angel.

Sam tries to diffuse the situation before it can get worse by explaining, “We just got back from Pamela’s funeral.”

“Pamela. You know, psychic Pamela. You remember her. Cas, you remember her; you burned her eyes out. Remember that? Good times. Yeah, then she died saving one of your precious Seals. So maybe you could stop pushing us around like chess pieces for five freakin’ minutes!” Dean takes an angry and aggressive step toward the current focus of his rage. I grab at the arm he’s dropped from around me and hold on.

“We raised you out of hell for our purposes.”

“Yeah, what were those again? What exactly do you want from me?”

“Start with gratitude.”

“Oh…,” he breathes, unable to put into words his thoughts at the ridiculousness of that statement.

“Dean, we know this is difficult to understand,” Castiel says when finally he speaks up.

“And we don’t care,” Uriel finishes for him. “Now, seven angels have been murdered. All of them from our garrison. The last one was killed tonight.”

“Demons? How are they doing it?” It doesn’t seem possible to me.

“We don’t know,” Uriel reluctantly admits.

“I’m sorry, but what do you want us to do about it? I mean, a demon with the juice to ice angels has to be out of our league, right?” Sammy can’t seem to understand why they’re here. Honestly, neither can I.

“We can handle the demons, thank you very much.”

“Once we find whoever it is,” Castiel adds, effectively wiping the self-satisfied look off of the other angel’s glaring face.

Dean is still confused. “So, you need our help hunting a demon?”

“Not quite,” Castiel replies with obvious discomfort. “We have Alistair.”

“Great. He should be able to name your triggerman,” Dean huffs.

“But he won’t talk. Alistair’s will is very strong. We've arrived at impasse,” Cas understates.

“Yeah, well he’s like a black belt in torture. I mean, you guys are out of your league,” Dean informs him from experience.

“That’s why we’ve come to his student,” Uriel informs Dean with delight. “You happen to be the most qualified interrogator we’ve got.”

“Dean, you’re our best hope,” Castiel tells him with sadness.

“No,” Dean responds immediately with a voice choked into a growl by anger and the devastation of memory. “No way. You can’t ask me to do this, Cas. Not this,” he grinds out, finally gripping the hand I have on his arm, both of us seeking to remain anchored to each other.

“Who said anything about asking?” Uriel sneers as he steps toward us.

And just like that, Dean is facing Hell.


	2. A Different Kind Of Fear

It’s like landing. That’s not exactly accurate, but I don’t know any other way to describe the sensation of angel-travel. First, you’re wherever you are, then you aren’t, then you feel the weight of yourself on your feet. Disconcerting, scary, a little exciting. It could come in handy in a pinch, but I’m not sure I like it. Especially when I see where we are. At this moment, I hate everything about the angels.

I’ve seen Dean afraid before. I’ve seen his eyes watch me be jumped from behind by a vampire. That was fear. I’ve seen his panicked energy to find Sam when his little brother disappeared with no explanation. That was fear. I saw his face when he heard the Hounds come for him. That was fear. The look he wears now, the rigidity with which he is suddenly holding himself, the light tremble I would never have noticed was I not already holding onto him - this is a new fear. This is totally unlike anything I have seen in him before.

“Stay here,” he says low and husky, squeezing my hand, whether to assure me or himself I’m not sure. “Please, Jay. I mean it. Don’t move.”

“Okay,” I agree, if only to relieve even a little bit of the anxiety in his eyes.

Dropping my hand, he walks slowly forward to look through a dirty wired window set in a dirty steel door. He changes immediately. No longer simply rigid, he is now fully alert, ready to defend himself from whatever lies beyond that door. And I know instantly what he sees.

“It’s Alistair? It is, isn’t it.” Turning to Castiel without moving my feet an inch, I yell, “You brought him to Alistair? He said no. He said NO!”

“You will quiet yourself, girl,” Uriel commands. Before I can tell him exactly what he can do with that tone of voice, Castiel speaks to Dean.

“This devil’s trap is old Enochian,” he explains, as if knowing the spell was written by angels makes any difference at all. “He is bound completely.”

Dean continues to stare, still, silent. Taking a deep breath as if to steady himself, he finally turns away. “Fascinating. Where’s the door?”  
“Where are you going?” Castiel demands.  
Striding purposefully back to me, he takes my arm. “I’m getting her the hell out of here. We’re hitching back to Cheyenne, thank you very much.”

“Angels are dying, boy,” Uriel says, appearing in front of us.

“Everybody’s dying these days. And, hey I get it. You’re all powerful. You can make me do whatever you want. But you can’t make me do this.” Dean seeks out Cas, looking askance toward the only angel in the room that he trusts.

“This is too much to ask. I know. But we have to ask it.” There is sadness in Castiel’s words, though it is nearly covered by determination.

Frustrated, Dean says to Uriel, “I want to talk to Cas alone.”

“Shall I take her with me?” he asks, slowly extending his hand to me.

Dean instantly pulls me behind him. Once I’m safely out of reach, he steps to the surly angel, stopping him with just the anger in his blazing green eyes. He speaks not a word; he doesn’t have to.

“I’ll go seek revelation. You’re defiant, but brave. I think I’m beginning to like you, boy,” he chuckles before disapparating, or whatever the hell that’s called outside of Hogwarts.

“What’s going on, Cas?” Dean questions the celestial being he was beginning to consider a friend, or at least a being he could trust. It’s not like him to be subservient to Uriel. He has been the one in control in the past. Turns out, the Powers That Be are displeased with his display of human weakness. He had begun to feel protective toward Dean, and he was demoted for it.

While Dean is distracted with Castiel, I move closer to the door by inches. I feel... compelled. Like I can’t control the pull. I HAVE to see through that window, I HAVE to look, to see him. Alistair. I don’t feel called, not really. I just know that the greatest danger to Dean we have ever faced is beyond that steel barrier and I have to face it. I have to-

“Jane! Damn it, Jane, I told you not to move!”

He’s grabbed me around the waist, heaving chest against my back, pulling air into panicked lungs. Dragging me back to where Castiel stands unmoving, he roughly spins me to face him, anger and fear shaping his actions.

“What the hell? I told you, damn it, I told you not to move. I can’t get us out of here if I spend my time worrying that you’re doing something stupid. Stand here. Right here. And do not move.” His harsh words are tempered by now gentle hands framing my face. The worry in his expression pleading with me to understand. And I do.

Some women need to be convinced of every decision made in a relationship. Every choice has to be examined and debated. They want the long conversations and heart-to-heart discussions, complete with lists of pros and cons for any given situation. They need the outward expression of relationship equality. If I was that kind of woman, if I needed that, I could not be with Dean. It’s just a fact. I understand that Dean is not ever going to be that guy. He just isn’t, and I accepted that a long time ago.

I’m not setting feminism back because of that. He neither views me nor treats me as a damsel in distress, a modern-day Penelope Pitstop. Nor would I allow it. I hunt monsters with my man, for God’s sake. He trusts me in a hunt, he trusts me to have his back, and, more significant to Dean, he trusts me to have Sammy’s back. I pull my weight, and he expects me to. His life has always been dictated by outside forces, though, and he craves that feeling of control.

Some women need to be told what to do at every turn. They want a big, strong man to take the responsibility of making decisions from them. That’s not me, either. If I needed that, Dean couldn’t be with me. The kind of life we live does not allow for that kind of weakness. I have a big, strong man; but I have a big, strong mind, too, and we both expect me to use it.

I’m not emasculating Dean by being headstrong. I don’t think it’s possible to do that, quite frankly. He is very secure in who he is in that respect, and very proud of who I am. We play well off each other. He listens to my instincts on the road, counts on me to catch and complete any holes in Sam and Bobby’s research, and when we’re alone, he looks forward to the excitement we can always generate together.

But no matter how much he sees me as a strong, smart, tough, capable woman, when I am in real danger, he takes control. I can accept it or go home. He set his terms, and I agreed. And right now, I am in great danger and he can’t send me home. He can’t get to Sammy. He can’t fight angels. And the cause of all of his worst nightmares is in the next room. Now is not the time to give him more to worry about.

“Okay, baby. I’m sorry. I’ll stay right here with Cas.”

He kisses me hard, connecting us. This closeness is just for us, a statement of his love, asking for my trust. He has it. He always has it.   
“I don’t have a choice, Jay,” he tells me, begging me to understand. Asking for my blessing. 

When he finally told Sam and me what was done to him in Hell, what it was really like, my heart broke all over again. The total devastation I felt when he was gone could not compete with the horrors he faced for forty years. Forty years. For longer than he’d drawn breath on this earth, he suffered in the darkest reaches of pain.

When he revealed what he had done to others, I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t in any way equate my badass hero with the sadistic actions he described. His confession left me reeling. I’ll admit it took me longer to accept the news than it did Sam. The little brother took in the news, digested it almost immediately, and moved on. But I had a hard time letting him touch me. 

I’m not proud of that. I’m not proud of the fact that he needed me and I couldn’t be what he needed, if even for the shortest time. I processed it within days, found my way back to the fact that this was Dean, that he was home, that he’d really had no other way to survive… Hell. He was in Hell, and no decision would have been good or easy or without consequence. It didn’t change who he is, who he’s always been. He’s Dean, and that’s enough. But he saw my struggle, and it hurt him. I can never make up for that.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “I’m sorry.”

“Dean, you do what you have to. Remember who you are, baby, and do what you have to do to get through it.”

“I will try, so hard. I can’t promise. This is, this is…” he’s struggling so with his fear. Of what he has to do, what it will do to him.

“I’ll be right here waiting for you.” I kiss him, again and again. I’m trying to be strong for him now, like I couldn’t be before. Like he always is for me. “I love you.”

“I know. I love you.”

He releases me and addresses Cas, who has been trying to be invisible.

“You do not want me doing this. Trust me.”

“Want it? No. But I’ve been told we need it.” 

“You ask me to open that door and walk through it, you will not like what walks back out.”

“For what its worth, I would give anything not to ask you to do this.”

It isn’t worth much.

Dean squares his shoulders, gives me one more look, and becomes someone I don’t know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, don’t hate Jane. Or me. In reality, I think it might take me a minute to deal with the whole torture revelation.  
> I feel like I might be walking down a well-worn path with the premise of this story, but I think my spin is worth exploring. Anyway, it won’t leave me alone, so I don’t have a choice. Let me know. Love it? Like it? Hate it? Share it!


	3. The Comfort Of Pretty Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something a little different. A little Jane/Castiel interaction. Don’t own Supernatural, but apparently there’s a no return policy on the flu.

He fills the rolling cart with the tools of a trade forced upon him. The lessons he mastered in Hell are coming back to him in horrific clarity. It’s obvious in the way his face changes, the way his eyes narrow and look off into a past I can’t see, as he touches each new instrument of torture. All the stories he refuses to talk about, all the memories he pretends don’t still keep him up at night, all the barriers he has put between who he is now and what he became then, are crumbling. Dean is being crushed by Hell, right in front of me.

I have not moved since sitting down on a rickety, abandoned table a half an hour ago. He noticed every fidget and tick for a while, so I decided to stay very still. I haven’t even gone for my phone yet to text Sam. I was afraid he'd try to stop me. My thought was to be as small a distraction to him as possible, but I’m beginning to feel that my stillness is unnecessary. He is so immersed in this task the angels have set before him that I'm not convinced he is even still aware of my presence. Castiel no longer registers for him, either. But Alistair. He is conscious of Alistair.

The demon behind the door is not quiet. I learned the two times I’ve met him before that he likes the sound of his own voice, no matter the incarnation. Vile, needling, persuasive, he uses his words as the first weapon from his bag of torturous tricks. He doesn’t seem to know yet who will be sent in to him, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Every generic taunt that makes its way to our hearing has an effect on Dean. His spine is ramrod straight, to the point that his back must be in pain. His actions become farther and farther removed from his usual cocky self-assurance, the nonchalance of a lifetime of action. He now has this elegance, this studied practice to every movement. His training is taking over.

“He will be fine, Jane.” I am still shocked that angels can lie. I guess I should be grateful that I can still be shocked at all, given the life I lead.

“No. He won’t.” Lies won’t help here.

“He is a very strong man.”

“Yes, he is. The strongest I know.”

“He will do what needs to be done. Dean understands that the information Alistair can give us is of paramount importance. There is no guilt to be had here.”

“That’s a pretty way of looking at it, Castiel. Does it make you feel better? Because if you knew Dean at all, you’d know that it’s total crap. He won’t feel guilty for getting the information, or for what happens to that son of a bitch demon in there.”

“Then why will -”

“He’ll agonize over who he has to be to get that information. He’ll beat himself up for showing that side in front of me. He’ll feel guilty for doing something he swore he’d never do again.”

“The purpose behind this is just. Dean is the kind of man who values purpose,” the angel tries to convince me. Or himself.

“You're right. But this isn’t his purpose; it’s yours. Look, Castiel. He’s more than a man motivated by purpose. He’s more than a strong man. He’s a good man. And what you’ve asked him to do… it’ll break a part of him. It will shred an already torn piece of him that he hasn’t allowed to heal. This will haunt him.”

“I don’t understand why. How can he not see that this will benefit everyone? It is the role Heaven has given him. It is the Will of God. I realize this is difficult for him, and I wish we did not have to compel him to do this, but - “

“There’s no more point to this debate than arguing about angels dancing on the head of a pin! Who cares how many can fit? You don’t get it, and I can’t make you understand. You saw what he did in Hell, Castiel. I saw what Hell did to him. Dean should not be going in there. Leave me alone. Please.”

Dean stills his hands. He must have everything the way he wants it, now. My time is up. I have to try to get in touch with Sam.

“Jane. Will you not forgive him for this?” Castiel asks.

“That isn’t the point! There is nothing for me to forgive. He has to forgive himself.”

“Will you forgive me? Will Dean?” There is confusion on his face. I still don’t get how this frighteningly powerful being can be so unsure of himself. I don’t know whether he cares or he’s just trying to be certain he understands the situation.

“Does it matter?” Before he can answer, his expression changes and he reaches out for my arm.

“What are you doing? What is that?” He must have been studying me very closely, damn it. I never get caught; I was taught too well. I believed he was lost in thought. Before I can complete the text, Castiel has snatched the phone from behind my back. I hope the GPS signal is strong.

“Don’t crush it or anything,” I sigh. “I’ll need it back.”

“You were trying to contact Sam?”

“Yes.” Why lie? It wouldn’t get my phone back.

“Sam was left behind for a reason.”

“I know that. What I don’t know is why. I’m just trying to keep Dean out of that room.”

“I know.”

“Hey, Cas?”

His eyebrows raise at the use of Dean’s nickname for him. I don’t often use it with the angel directly. “Yes, Jay?”

“That’s just weird. Don’t call me that, okay? Only my boys call me that.” He confuses me again with his attempt to connect. I just can’t figure out his game.

“All right. What do you want to ask?”

“You left Sammy behind.”

“And?”

“And why am I here? Why did Uriel allow me to come here with Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says, having become aware of us again. “Why was Jane brought here?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps because she was holding on to you when we left.”

“No, I don’t think so. I think that’s bullshit,” Dean replies, his back still turned to us. I want him to turn around. And I don’t want him to turn around. I need to see his face, but I am so frightened of what I will see.

“Dean-”

“Why was she brought here, Cas?” he yells. His patience is gone.

“I don’t know. Jane wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Well, that’s just great. You bring me here to keep your angel-soldiers from being killed, but you put my girl in danger to do it. Is she leverage? Hold her hostage to be sure I do as I’m told? Hmm, Cas? ‘Cause I’m just trying to understand what’s really going on here. Get a handle on who we’re dealing with. You know, before I leave her in here with you while I go play with the demon!”

He has stepped right up to the angel, their eyes locked, Dean so close they are nearly touching. My man is seething, whether at the danger I’m in or at the situation as a whole doesn’t matter. I see his face. He is ready for battle, his demeanor bearing no resemblance to the man he was just an hour ago. He’s focused, he’s pissed, he’s ready for a fight.

And, God help me, but I think he’s excited.

Dean, and Sam, too, to be honest, can get really pumped before a fight. Like the scene in The Outsiders when Ponyboy and the rest of the Greasers hoot, holler, and do flips on their way to the rumble. Well, kind of. They get hyped, preparing themselves for the total release, physical and mental, that a good fight provides. For my boys, the scraped knuckles, swollen eyes, bruised ribs - they’re all worth it. For the relief the fight brings, it’s worth it. 

The only thing that rivals a fight for Dean is sex, and for Sam, well, I’m not going there. The violence that is a constant thread in their lives became a necessary outlet for them. Especially Dean, I think. When the pressure of this life gets too much, he’s been known to ruin some random guys night. I accept it. Bar brawls are just a fact of life with him. He makes sure to hold back, though, to make sure he doesn’t kill anybody. Dean looks very strong, but he’s still much stronger than he looks.

This feeling I’m getting from him now, however, is different from the anticipation of release. Different from the rush he gets in a fight. This is gleeful. He’s anxious, now, to get into that room. He’s still protective, still fighting against the order, but he’s ready to get started.

I think I’m getting a glimpse of what he’s kept hidden. And I’m scared for him.

“You watch her,” he commands.

“Yes,” is Castiel’s only reply. What more needs to be said?

One rough hand behind my neck pulls me toward him. The kiss is hard and fast and possessive. No terms of endearment, just the kiss, reminding us both that I’m his.

Turning his back, he grasps the cart full of pain and memories best left unexamined, and he passes through the door.


	4. BEHIND THE DOOR

The screams aren’t Dean’s. That’s what I keep telling myself. It’s not him. I’ve heard Dean scream in pain. I’ve watched him be cut and sliced and punched and kicked. I have watched him be beat half to death and back. I’ve watched him be knocked unconscious more times than I care to count. I know what his screams sound like.

Those screams aren’t Dean’s.

Make no mistake, I’ve watched him beat the hell out of more than one monster. Sometimes more than one at a time. It’s the job. They might not always die easily or fast, but they have to die. I’ve seen him punish, and I’ve seen him take satisfaction in a good fight. I've seen him get information when it was needed. I’ve never really seen him enjoy it. And I’ve never heard screams like that.

That’s not him screaming. And that’s all that’s keeping me rooted in place. It’s the only thing keeping me from breaking down that door to get to him. That, and the order to not move. How can I defy that simple request when he is facing the monster that lurks in his darkest places.

I don’t know what he is actually doing, not the blow by blow. He doesn’t want me to know. I don’t need to. I don’t want to. All I want to know is that the man I love is safe. That the anchor of my world is going to walk out of that room in one piece. I want to know that my world will not be shattered again.

“I wonder sometimes,” I say as I sense rather than hear Castiel approach behind me. I am so tense, it’s like he disturbed the waves of worry that must be radiating from my body. 

“What do you wonder, Jane?” Curious in his powerfully naive way.

“I wonder what my life would be like if the vamps had never come across my mother. If my father hadn’t died defending us. If the state had been unable to find Uncle Bobby, or if he’d refused to take me.”

“Why do you wonder this now?”

“Because I also wonder where I would be at this moment if I had never met Dean Winchester. If I had never fallen in love with him, or if he’d only ever seen me as a young, hero-worshiping piece of ass. If he’d never loved me back. Where would I be, Castiel? Can you tell me that? Would I be here, listening to him tear himself apart behind that door?” I don’t mean to yell. I can’t seem to stop myself, either.

“That is not Dean screaming in pain,” he says, utterly confused.

“I know. I know. I just-” I sigh, unable to even explain what I mean to myself. 

“You are here for him now, Jane. That is what’s important. Isn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” I sigh again because there is just nothing else to do. Another thought grabs hold, taunts me, shows me another thing I can’t fix. “He took a bottle in there with him, did you notice? Just to get through it on his feet. He takes a bottle everywhere these days, to cope. The memories, the nightmares. This will make it worse. Being as drunk as functionally possible is his only escape, the one crutch he relies on without a second thought.”

“He has you. And Sam.”

“He worries about me and Sam.”

“I see,” the angel replies, but he really doesn’t.

“This isn’t who he wants to be. And I don’t want to be here watching it. It’s too hard to think he could be slipping away. I’m afraid he’ll get lost inside himself, Cas.” I don’t know why I’m telling him all of this. I guess, at the moment, he’s all I’ve got.

“I wish I could send you back to Sam. I’m sorry.”

“Never mind. I wouldn’t leave him even if I could. I can’t. Because the what if ‘s never happened. I do love him, he does love me. I can’t leave him to face this alone.” And the traitorous tears begin to flow despite my strangled efforts to stop them.

Before I can wipe my face dry, the overhead lights begin to pop, eerily reminiscent of the moment of Castiel’s arrival in our lives.

“Uninvited guest, Castiel?”

“Yes. Stand close to me.” I don’t have to be told twice. Just as I reach his side, finally moving from the exact place where Dean left me, I see familiar red hair atop a self-important swagger.

“Anna,” I sneer.

“Jane,” she responds, with no emotion in her voice. Her eyes tell a slightly different tale as she gives me a once over. I feel weighed and measured, but if she wants me to feel as though I’ve been found wanting, she’s going to have to bring it in a rather more slammin’ body. She has no cause to be smug. He chose me, bitch, I think to myself. He chooses me every time.

And I smirk. I’m good at it; my boyfriend taught me how. Anna is not pleased by my reaction, but I am. All it took was one look at this angel hell bent on getting in my man’s pants, and I’ve found my strength again. Enough of this whiny damsel bullshit. Enough of the what if’s. Dean needs me now.

Before she can respond to my not so subtle challenge, Castiel unleashes his confusion again.

“Anna. Your human body?”

“It was destroyed, I know. But I guess I’m sentimental. Called in some old favors.” She looks to me when she says this. I raise an eyebrow. 

“Should have traded up for one with bigger boobs.”

“You don’t like me.”

“No more than you like me,” I assure her. We lock eyes for a moment, settling in to this fact. At least we know where we stand with each other.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Castiel warns her. “We still have orders to kill you.” Now these are heavenly orders I don’t mind so much.

“Somehow, I don’t think you’ll try.” I don’t like the way she said that. I don’t like the way she spoke to Castiel. She’s too sure of her rightness.

“What makes you special? What makes you better than him, or Junkless out there?” I ask, referring to Uriel with Dean’s not so affectionate nickname.

The gleam in her eye as she turns back to me is fanatic in its bold confidence, and I find myself taking an ill-considered step toward her. Every fiber in my being is screaming to smack the smug right off her face. Our catfight is postponed by another unholy shout of pain coming from beyond the steel door. The sound shifts Anna’s attention from me to Cas.

“Why are you letting Dean do this?” Anna asks Castiel. I want that answer, as well. The real answer, not the Uriel-approved one. Not the confused blow off. Why?

“He’s doing God’s work,” Cas tells her. For once, Anna and I agree; neither of us buy that, and she argues her point with her former subordinate.

“Stop him, Cas,” she finally begs. “Before you ruin the one real weapon you have.”

Before I can ask just what in hell she means by that, she turns her full attention to me again, just in time for her to see me involuntarily cringe at Alistair’s latest shout. I curl inward, as if by protecting myself, I can somehow protect Dean, too. I see a new look in her eyes. I think it’s sympathy. At the very least, I see understanding in her gaze.

“Go to him,” she says. And then I’m landing again, this time on the other side of that steel door.

I see and hear and feel so much at once, a sensory overload of torture and hate and evil. Alistair is steaming and screaming and dripping with what can only be holy water. There is blood, and knives, and all manner of hooked and sharp blades haphazardly tossed on the once meticulously neat cart. The air is hot and damp and thick. The smell of blood and sweat nearly makes me gag, but amidst the frenzied presence of pain, I have to focus.

Dean, as in every situation, captures my attention first and foremost. The beacon within me, that draws me to him always, does not fail me now. He is pouring holy water in the demon’s face, and he is as yet unaware of my sudden presence. I know that will change in seconds. He has his own beacon. And as soon as the idea is thought, he turns with eyes widened.

“I knew I’d ping your radar,” I joke, trying desperately to mask the profound shock I feel at the scene before me. I am woefully unprepared for this reality.

His eyes, though showing bare hints of surprise and alarm now, are still nearly as dead as when first I arrived in this small room carved from Hell. Dead eyes and a sneer that appears so comfortable on his face, it’s as though it has always been there. Gone completely is the man I know. The man I love is stowed away somewhere safe, I hope, away from the darkness that has claimed the man in front of me. I’m scared. Not of Dean, but of everything he is battling.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” he growls, angry. Concerned, yes, but most seriously pissed.

“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. I have to make sure he knows I didn’t defy his request, his order to stay put, on my own. It wasn’t intentional. “I think-”

“She was sent in here, Dean,” the monster on the rack informs him in a sickeningly delighted voice after spitting blood and water from his mouth. He smiles. “This pretty, soft, sweet, tender little girl was sent in here by an angel. What’s your name, little girl?”


	5. Trapped in the Amber of the Moment

When I was a sophomore, I had some trouble with one of the guys in my high school. The guy was an arrogant, over-confident pig. How Dean found out the pig had touched my ass and called me “baby”, he won’t say. But he and Sam showed up at school, in the middle of the day. I could have defended myself from the frat-boy-in-training, but my boys were having none of that. Sam walked up behind me and slung his arm around my shoulders. Dean was not taking such a gentle approach. He couldn’t touch that dick, but he made it perfectly clear, in no uncertain terms, that I was to be left alone. The look of pure anger on his face promised pain, lots of pain, and that dick believed him. He never spoke to me again.

When I was a senior and Sam was gone and Dean and I were finally together, a more serious threat emerged. With it being common knowledge in our small Dakota town that my boys weren’t around much anymore, I became a seemingly easier target. A local biker set his sights on me. It started small: showing up at my part-time job at the diner, parking by the school, drive-bys at the salvage yard. I tried to keep my cool and not start a big, public scene.I didn’t want to tell Uncle Bobby - he had a hard enough time seeing me as the adult I thought I was. I didn’t want him swooping in and acting like a concerned parent. Dean wasn’t around as much as I’d like, and when he was was, the biker seemed unimportant. The day that big bad biker cornered me in the diner and told me in detail what he was going to do to me the minute my pretty boyfriend left town again, I decided it was a problem to share with Dean. I could have easily taken care of this Hell’s Angel wannabe with all the training I’d had, but Dean saw this as his responsibility, and I stayed aware from the biker. The police found him, broken into rattling pieces, two days later. Dean left town a day after that with bruised knuckles and a promise from me not to keep things from him anymore.

Not long after Sam came back, we were hunting a nest of vamps. I’m a good hunter, but the vamp was faster, and I was cut deeply. It hurt, so much, and I screamed loud and long before I could stop myself. It was the first time I’d been seriously injured, and neither Dean nor I took it well. When he was finished with the vampire, blood covered the walls.

At those times and so many more, I have seen Dean slip into his self-assigned role as my protector. But never have I seen so clearly his need to keep me safe as when Alistair called me little girl.

“Go,” he grinds out, staring at me, through me. Immediately turning, offering no resistance to the order, I grasp and grab and paw at the door until I finally accept the only conclusion.

“I can’t get out.”

“What do you me-”

“Oh, Dean, she can’t open the door. Can’t you feel it? The angel’s power? She’s, uh, in here because someone wants her here. And she’s not leaving. Why is that, little one?”

Dean bristles subtly,so slightly as to have gone unnoticed by anyone but me.

And Alistair. He sees it. And is delighted.

“Because she’s yours, Dean? Could that be why Sweet Jane is trapped in here? Always putting those you love in danger.”

It is revolting, nauseating, disgusting, unnerving to hear my name on his lips. It is horrifying to hear him sing it. I will never be able to listen to that song again. I have worked so hard to recover my strength as a Hunter since Dean’s return. Just the sound of this demon’s voice is robbing me of it again.

Dean’s back is still to the demon, facing me. His eyes show how desperately he wants to touch me, cover me, shield me from the menacing gaze of the dangerous being behind him. But we are both too unsure of Alistair’s reaction to move. Instead, Dean tries to gather information.

“How did you get in here, Jay?”

“Anna,” I whisper. “She seemed worried for you.”

He grimaces and balls his fists, desperately needing to hit something. He stomps over to Alistair and punches the still singing demon harder than I’ve ever seen Dean it anyone or anything.

“Shut up! You get her name out of your mouth!”

Spitting blood and teeth, Alistair smiles. “Not even going to deny that she belongs to you?”

“How can I?”

“Smart, Dean. You’re smart. Not letting me use that to needle you. You could never hide it. You changed the moment you saw her.” His demeanor changes, becomes crueler still as he says, “How unfortunate for her.”

“Enough,” Dean growls, turning his back to the monster on the rack to face me. “You will stay there, by the door. Do not move this time.”

That pisses me off a little, and he can tell, but he cuts his eyes at me to let me know now is not the time. He’s right, but it’s not my fault. It’s not my fault.

“I still have a job to do before they let us go, Jay. I have to get the answers the angels need,” he says softer, more gentle, more like the Dean I know. “Please don’t get any closer to this than you have to.”

“Okay. I’ll stay out of the way.”

“Thank you,” he whispers,not touching me as he might normally do. Not giving the nightmare more fuel to use against us.

It doesn’t matter.

“Oh, how sweet,” Alistair intones in that eerie, unnatural voice he has affected. “He takes such good care of you, doesn’t he Jane. The whole time in Hell when I made him think you were there with him, he tried so valiantly to shield you from what was happening, from what he was becoming. Tell me, how does it feel when you have a torturer inside you? When you make love to a man who caused so much pain? Does it make you-”

The rest is cut off when Dean runs a knife into the stomach of Alistair’s host. He roars, he screams, he unleashes dark sounds of agony. And then Dean removes the knife, and Alistair laughs. The monster laughs. I am shaking so hard that standing is difficult, and i fall back against the door. Dean hears and rushes to me, uncure of turning away from Alistair, but simply unable to let me fall.

“Those hands that hold you now, little Janie, have ripped souls to shreds, left them as nothing when he was done. Ripped skin from muscle, muscle from bone, and enjoyed it. He enjoyed it, little Jane.”

“Shut up! Shut up!” Dean whispers to me as I yell to be strong, to ignore the demon’s words, to calm down. My hands cover my ears, and I close my eyes, whether to block out Alistair or Dean, I can’t be sure.

“Alistair, I will make you pay for this!” Dean yells.

“Oh, I have no doubt, Grasshopper. I taught you well. You know, uh, Jane, that he was one of the best students I ever had. Quick, never had to told twice. He was already so skilled with a knife that when the first soul appeared on his table, he knew exactly what to do, where to start. Of course, he had thirty years of experience with torture. From the other side of the knife, obviously, but he knew the drill. Your man picked it up all so fast. almost like he was born to do it.”

“Dean, make him stop,” I ask. only the second thing I have ever begged for in my life.

“I will. I promise, I will, damn it,” he says as he turns away from me.

‘He did all of that for you, in a way, little Jane. To keep me from showing your face in agony. To never have to hear you scream when I conjured you on the table beside him. you might say it was your fault, maybe. would you, jane? Would you say Dean became what he is because of you?”

Dean finally reaches his teacher and shuts him up with a funnel of salt down his throat.

The question still lingers.

“No,” I whisper. ‘No, no, no, no, no….”  
He can’t hear my answer. Neither of them.


	6. Salt in the Wound

Sitting on this floor, the muck and dirt and debris left from whatever this room’s original purpose is sticking to my funeral dress. It is, at this very moment in time, the one single thing in existence on which I am trying to focus. The mess, the dust, the grime. Everything else around me is simply too much to handle.

“He left you behind when he made that deal. Saved Sammy and left you behind. But you always knew he would. All those women before you, you must have realized that someday he would leave you, sweet Jane.” 

Alistair has not stopped. He has not quieted. He has not let up his barrage of abuse for a second. Not in the face of my pleading, not at the command of Dean’s yelling, not on the receiving end of the brutality of the beating Dean is dealing him right now. New words spew from his mouth with every drop of blood pouring from his vessel’s body. Each punch brings with it another taunt for Dean, every nick of a blade reveals a hidden fear of my own. Now that I am no longer forbidden fruit, does Dean really still find me exciting? Why was Dean not able to resist Hell’s compromise?

Dean continues to question him, trying so hard to get the answer he has been sent in here to get, the answer that will free us both from this room, that will get us the hell away from demons and angels alike. Back on his task, the emotion is once again gone. He has turned himself off, blocked me out. I suppose I understand now

“Who’s murdering the angels?” A splash of holy water from Dean, a mouthful of hate in return.

“It’s not getting deep enough. You lack the resources. Reality is just, I don't know, too concrete up here. Honestly, Dean…” Denying the pain, a smartass refusal from the demon of the true danger he is in. I refuse to see the parallels and go back instead to wiping the ruin from my dress. “You have no idea how bad it really was, and what you really did for us.”

Dean turns from his rolling cart, looks quickly at his teacher, and whispers, “Shut up.”

“The whole bloody thing, Dean. The reason Lilith wanted you there in the first place.”

“Make him shut up,” I say, suddenly convinced that Alistair cannot be allowed to continue.

Dean nods in my direction, but doesn’t meet my eyes. He can’t look at me. He pours salt down Alistair’s throat through a funnel, and I am still able to be shocked at the inventive nature of the pain he is doling out. He is feral. We’ll deal with that later, though, because right now the most important thing in the world is that Alistair shuts up. Shut up, shut up, shut up. Oh, God, make him shut up.

Spitting blood and salt and spit, Alistair still will not stop. “Something caught in my throat. I think it's my throat.”

“Well, strap in, 'cause I'm just starting to have fun,” Dean tells him. But it isn’t fun. Nothing about his voice or his body language indicates that he is enjoying any of what he’s doing. Self-loathing, shame, the mechanical and efficient work of a job that must be done - that’s what he looks like, all of those things wrapped up in the tightened tendons and muscles and expressions of this man who means everything to me. Dean is still there, though he is hiding from himself. Dean’s still there.

“You know, it was supposed to be your father. He was supposed to bring it on. But, in the end, it was you.”

And I know. I know this is what this white-eyed son of a bitch has been leading up to. The look of satisfaction on his battered face is all I need to see. He is going to try to finish the job he started. Whatever he has to say will destroy my man.

“Shut up, Alistair,” I say, standing and moving just slightly toward them.

“Let the grown ups talk, now, little girl,” he hisses at me, and I’m afraid. I move back to my spot near the wall, sitting back down, shutting back up. I don’t know why. I feel maneuvered, manipulated, much as I have since my arrival in this place. Angels, demons, I guess it doesn’t matter. I don’t understand their power, and I don’t understand what’s happening to me. My mind is fighting to help Dean, to protect him, but I can’t break free from this sudden inertia.

“Jane?” Dean questions, pivoting to get a closer look. He begins to move toward me when Alistair grabs his attention once more.

“You know, it was supposed to be your father,” Alistair continues after a moment of what looks like happy surprise when I obey his order. “He was supposed to bring it on. But, in the end, it was you. Oh, every night, the same offer, remember? Same as your father. And finally you said, "Sign me up." Oh, the first time you picked up my razor, the first time you sliced into that weeping bitch...”

I think how I will never ask Dean who that was on his table. When he is in the throes of the nightmares that plague him, I think I hear her name. I have heard it. More than once. She haunts him. Her familiar face, her accent, the pieces of her story that we were only really able to put together after her death. The death that came so close to his own. But I will never ask him. This one thing, I will never let him admit. He will never have to tell me what he did to Bela.

Dean faces him dead on. Facing his smiling nightmare.

“That was the first seal.” He is so happy to say it. He’s been saving it for just this moment. How pleased he is to deliver this news.

“You’re lying,” Dean insists, walking closer and closer to the evil on the rack.

But he’s not, is he. Oh, Dean.

“And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in hell. As he breaks, so shall it break.”

With this Dean turns his back on this new reality told through the bloody mouth of a decaying vessel of the most powerful demon we have ever known. And he is broken. Broken in ways I can’t imagine, broken like I have not seen before. Our eyes meet, mine through tears that have appeared without warning, his through total realization. He needs my strength and love and understanding, and I’m trying to send it all to him in a way that is clear enough for him to see, but I’m not sure he I make him see it at all. I’m broken, too.

He closes his eyes.

I go back to cleaning the filth from my dress.

“We had to break the first seal before any others. Only way to get the dominoes to fall, right? Topple the one at the front of the line. When we win, when we bring on the apocalypse and burn this earth down, we'll owe it all to you, Dean Winchester. Believe me, son, I wouldn't lie about this. It's kind of a religious sort of thing with me.”

“No. I don't think you are lying. But even if the demons do win, You won't be there to see it.”

I look up to see Dean gripping Ruby’s knife tightly in preparation for the kill, and realize much too late that my skirt is not only dirty, but wet.  
Alistair noticed the water. Though it should not be possible, though Castiel promised it could not happen, he is standing close enough for Dean to feel his breath on the back of his neck. “You should talk to your plumber about the pipes.”


	7. Blood and Water

You expect slow motion, don’t you? In those moments of complete and total life-altering horror, time should slow down. It doesn’t. You don’t get time to think or plan. You don’t get those Matrix-like moments of sudden pin-point clarity. No. Instead, you act. You act with no real thought, just emotion and adrenaline and the need to do something. No plan, no idea of the most effective move, no strategy. Just action. And it all goes so incredibly fast.

I’ve learned that lesson well through the years. The life we lead, the kind of hunting we do, it spurs you into hasty action pretty often. Rarely does it work out quite the way you’d hope, often it is completely unsuccessful. Doesn’t stop you, though. When someone you love is in danger, you act.

And that’s what I’m doing. Seeing Alistair so close to Dean finally clears whatever fog is clouding my mind. I am able to spring from the spot on the floor to which I’ve been rooted. I make it less than a step, though. The demon seems to have known I was going to move before I did. Thrown against the dirty, rusted metal walls of this disaster of a room, I bang my head. The noise is deafening in my ears, but I think I’m the only one who hears it.

Alistair swings his right fist. Dean is on the ground. Alistair is seething and looming over the center of my world, and there is not a damn thing I can do about. I yell for help, but I know that if Castiel and Anna could hear us, they’d be in here already. I don’t understand how any of this is happening. The sight of the broken Devil’s Trap, ancient magic undone by mysteriously present drops of water, makes me wonder what is truly at work here. It is no matter at this second, though. At this second the questions for Heaven make no difference. All Hell has broken loose.

The sounds of impact are all I can hear. I’m know I’m yelling at Alistair to stop, screaming for Dean to fight back, sobbing at the sight in front of me, but I hear only the sound of Alistair’s fist as it breaks bones, bruises skin, draws blood. He has lifted Dean from the floor by his collar so he’s easier to reach. Dean can no longer hold himself up. 

“Alistair,” I say, trying so desperately to reach him, have him look at me, steal his attention away from Dean.

“Sweet Jane. I almost forgot I left you hanging there. Enjoying the show?” he asks me, smirking, letting Dean drop to the floor. He turns his hypnotically evil face to me, and I am chilled.

“Alistair, please.”

“Please? Please what, girl?”

“Please stop. You’re going to kill him.”

“Oh, I know,” he drawls. “I am definitely going to kill him. And I’m going to make you watch. And when he’s dead, I’ll kill you. I’m just sorry he won’t see it, little Jane. But I’ll tell him all about it when I get him back on my table. He’ll know every detail of what I do to you. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that,” he sneers.

I have never been so afraid.

“Oh, God, please help us,” I pray as I struggle with renewed panic against the invisible shackles holding me in place.

“God is not here.”

With that final thought for me, Alistair turns his attention back to a bleeding and broken Dean. Lifting him with a hand under his chin, his thumb gouging into his throat, the powerful and pissed off demon pushes Dean against the rack from which he himself was so recently and inexplicably freed, raising my love’s battered body until his worn boots no longer touch the floor.

“You’ve got a lot to learn, boy,” Alistair tells a barely conscious Dean. “So I'll see you back in class bright and early Monday morning.”

Dean’s eyes are unfocused, they begin to roll back into his head. Alistair is killing him at the very moment he informs him that Hell again awaits. 

I feel like an animal. I howl and snap my jaws, I push and pull against the unseen cage in which I am trapped, I have no thought or goal except escape. Escape and get to Dean.

I am no more successful than a monkey beating against the bars of its cage.

Suddenly, in silent appearance, no sound of wings, Castiel. God may not be here, but his angel is. 

“Cas,” I breathe.

He pays no mind to me, intent on the angel blade in his hand as he rushes behind Alistair. But the element of surprise is lost almost before it began, and the demon turns on the angel. Too late. Cas stabs him in the heart with Ruby’s knife, and sparks erupt. I am freed from the bonds created in Alistair’s mind. Dean, for the moment no longer Alistair’s only focus, drops again to the ground. He’s gasping for air through, at the very least, broken ribs and a collapsed lung. I rush to him, and resist the urge to pull him into my lap.

“Jay,” he whispers, and I hear him. Through all the fighting between Heaven and Hell going on around us, I hear him.

“I’m okay,” I tell him touching his face, hoping I am not causing him more pain. And then my attention is drawn to a still talking Alistair.

“Well, almost. Looks like God is on my side today.”

Castiel disagrees and stretches his hand toward the demon, twisting the knife in place. Though grunting in pain, Alistair reaches up and removes the knife.

Oh, shit. We are not okay. None of us. Dean loses consciousness as they begin to fight. Slamming Castiel against a post, seeming to hang him from a hook, Alistair can’t resist a villain’s monologue while holding the angel in place by the throat.

“Well, like roaches, you celestials. Now, I really wish I knew how to kill you. But all I can do is send you back to heaven.”

Latin spews forth from the mouth of the very old torture master, and Castiel begins to glow. He’s being banished. How the hell can I possibly get Dean and me out of this, if the angel on our shoulder can’t get it done?

And then Alistair is thrown to the wall on the opposite side of the room; Castiel falls limply to the ground.

“Sam.”


	8. The Truth Hurts

I’ve known for a long time. I know my boys, Sam almost as well as Dean, and I knew something was different. Wrong. Sammy keeps secrets these days, even from me. He never used to, and I think he has to work harder around me because of it. We know each other’s tells. Shutting me out doesn’t come naturally, I guess. We used to tell each other everything, Sammy and me. Then Dean went to Hell, I went crazy, and Sam went away. Nothing has been the same since. Especially Sam.

Dean has changed. How could he not? Gone is the easy humor, the ever-present glint of mischief in his eyes. I see flashes of it, brief glimpses of what used to be. He fakes it as well as he can, and I know he’s working on getting it back for real, but he is just fighting so hard for normalcy. Our kind of normalcy, anyway. Me, Sam, purpose; this is what’s important to him. There was always a dangerous dark side in Dean. But there is a new hardness in him, this man who was already such a hardass. 

I changed. My world exploded, collapsed, disappeared. And so did I. Since getting Dean back, I have been so much weaker, so much less confident in myself than I have ever been. My faith in Dean is unshaken; my faith in myself is questionable at best. I’m trying to build myself back up, trying to feel the strength I used to have. I used to be a damn good hunter, and a damn smart woman. I wish I could be those things more often these days. Dean is helping. He still believes in me, in my choices, in my ability.

But Sam. Sam is a different person. I still love him, would still kill for him, would still die for him. I would just like to know who the hell he is these days. The anger and distance I first noticed when we found him again after Dean’s return is still very much between us, though he hides it well most of the time. He’s not the boy who was my best friend, not really, not anymore. It’s not the psychokinesis or whatever you call it, his psychic powers. Azazel left that little gift for him. It isn’t his fault or his choice that these abilities lie within him. The problem is the lies, the secrets. Ruby.

When he told us he was going to stop using his power, Dean believed him. But something in Sam’s voice . . . I just knew. This was not over. And I was right. He was able to take out Samhain a couple months ago, as well as be completely unaffected by the famous demon’s attack. When Uriel warned him to quit for good, I still had my doubts about Sammy’s sincerity. It was when he escaped without a scratch when Alastair attacked him and Dean in that cemetery in Greybull just a few days ago that I knew for sure. He had no plausible excuse for me when they got back to the motel. I was nursing a concussed Dean while Sam struggled to come up with a story he thought we’d believe. 

I’ve known for a long time. I just didn’t know this.

A high-ranking demon who nearly destroyed the greatest hunter alive, and was seconds away from banishing an angel from his vessel, went flying across the room at the sheer force of Sam’s will. And he isn’t stopping there. 

“Stupid pet tricks,” Alastair sneers from his place on the wall.

“Who's murdering the angels? How are they doing it?” Sam demands, hand still extended to hold the monster in place.

Sam, so clean in this room of blood and filth and water and bile, chokes the battered demon with a twist of his wrist until its eyes turn white. Sam, so powerful in this room of broken bodies, standing tall and strong as he tries to strangle answers out of a growling Alastair. I can barely pay attention to the interrogation. Dean is getting worse, struggling for breath on the floor. Cas is climbing down from the hook behind me, recovering slowly. There are too many horrors to keep track of.

“Sam,” I say, too quietly. 

“I don't believe you,” Sam insists when Alastair tells him the demons are not behind the angelic murders.

“Lilith is not behind this. She wouldn't kill seven angels. Oh, she'd kill a hundred, a thousand,” Alastair says, complete awe in his voice.

“Sam!” I shout, demanding his attention. Finally, I have it.

“What?” he snaps. He is so removed from everything in this room except for Alastair and himself.

“Dean. Sam, he needs a hospital. Right now.”

He looks from me to Dean and back to Alastair, an indecision on his face that I would not have believed if I wasn’t seeing it for myself.

“Now, Sam,” I plead as he refocuses on Alistair, a new look of determination in his eyes.

“Oh, go ahead. Send me back, if you can,” Alastair challenges, no real fear in his voice.

A smile on his face, Sam chillingly responds, “I'm stronger than that now. Now I can kill.”

What he does to Alastair, the pleasure he feels in killing the demon with his mind, the power it demands, scares the living hell out of me. For the first time since I’ve known him, since I was nine years old, I’m afraid of Sam Winchester.

Castiel and I silently stare at the changed man in front of us. I needed him, I was trying to contact him, and now that he’s here, I don’t want him anywhere near us. Glancing at Castiel, I see disgust, a little anger, maybe even disappointment. But not surprise. This is why I was taken and he was left behind. This is why the angels didn’t want him here. Sam is dangerous. Sam is using a power he should not explore. That he should not have. But, my God, how is he doing it? Why is he stronger? How long have the angels known? WHAT do they know that they haven’t told Dean and me? And I’m even more afraid for us all at the thought.

And then a flurry of activity in the heavy silence. Castiel disappears in a ruffle of wings, Sam calls an ambulance and gives them the address. I’m grateful for his presence if only for the fact that he knows where the hell we are. And I cradle Dean as much as I dare, still protecting him, but from what, I don’t know anymore.

Sam approaches, but when he sees my expression, when he meets my eyes, he slows down. Much more cautiously, he closes the few feet between us and kneels to the floor in front of me.

“Jay, let me check him, okay?”

I don’t answer, I grip Dean tighter, more confused than I have ever been. This is Sam. But can I trust him?

“Jay,” he says gently, realizing immediately in his uniquely Sammy way that he has to be very careful here.

“You scare the hell out of me right now, Sam.”

He hangs his head, “I know. I’m so sorry.”

But he isn’t. He might be sorry I’m afraid, be he is not at all sorry for scaring me. Not sorry for what he did. The apology is not for showing me what he can do.

“How? And how long? Sammy, what the fuck?”

“Later, Janie. Right now, just let me check on Dean.”

“He’s bad, Sam,” I say, finally leaning on the strength I need from him. We take care of each other, damn it. I need him now to keep me going, he’ll need me later to understand when he’s ready to explain, Dean needs us both to keep him alive. “He’s so hurt. That son of a bitch was going to kill him!”

“But he didn’t. He’s gonna be fine,” he assures me with conviction, working to convince us both. 

Sam leans over his brother, concern and love clearly etched on his face, until the ambulance arrives.


	9. Undoing the Work of Angels

I have listened to Dean Winchester’s heart for more beats than I could ever count, in more places than I will ever remember. I have lain against his chest in lazy rest, in excited exhaustion, in abject sorrow. It was a sound, his heartbeat, that helped solidify the reality of his return for me. 

It does not sound the same through a monitor, though that beeping, too, assures me of his life. As does the hiss of the respirator, and the ever-present scuffle of nurses’ feet. These things would not be necessary if he was gone.

He’s not gone. Lying across the hospital bed in ICU with my ear as close to his side as the wires allow, I can hear his heart. I can feel his body move as breath is forced into his dangerously damaged lungs. He’s not dead, Alastair did not succeed. It remains to be seen if the experience has broken him. The doctors have not yet given a clear prognosis of full recovery. And we, Sam and I, know that his mind, his spirit, are not yet out of the woods, not yet assured of repair.

Sam is . . . Sam. He’s back to his mild, worried, helpful, thoughtful self. Angry at the wreckage that is his brother’s body, worried about me and the inevitable breakdown to which I have not yet surrendered. He sits there in his chair and stares, watchful for any change in Dean, much as I am doing lying here next to his heart. He jumps up suddenly and hurries from the room. Through the blinds in that protect the false priacy of the room, I see him catch up to Castiel.

“Get in there and heal him. Miracle. Now,” sam demands, and I agree completely. I get up from my seat and move closer to the door and out of the way, in anticipation of the angel’s entry. And am shocked. Though i spent the entire time I was in that room with Dean and Alastair wading through a mental fog, I am clear as bell now. I just can’t believe what Castiel is saying.

“I can't.”

What the hell does he mean, he can’t? Sam is even less accepting of his answer.

“You and Uriel put him in there—”

“No,” Cas interjects, sounding so dejected and hopeless . . . and guilty.

“—because you can't keep a simple devil's trap together,” Sam finishes, undeterred by the quiet protest.

“I don't know what happened. That trap...it shouldn't have broken. I am sorry.”

“Water,” I croak out. I haven’t spoken much since we got here.

“What?” they both ask as they turn to look at me in the doorway. I’m not leaving this room, not until Dean wakes up, but I’ll talk to them from here.

“There was water all over the floor by the trap,” I explain. “It was all over my dress. It was soaked.”

“Water?” the angel confirms.

“Yeah. It corrupted the trap. I didn’t notice until...until it was too...too late,” I stammer, ashamed once again at my inability to save Dean, to keep him safe.

“WHAT?” Sam roars. I don’t blame him. “You were on the damn floor, Jane!”

“I, I , I don’t know! I don’t know what happened! It was like I was thinking through pudding. I knew what my thoughts were, but they took a while to make sense. I’m sorry!” And the tears that I have not let fall yet, begin to fall now.

“It isn’t your fault,” Castiel tells me as he takes a concerned step toward me. “Are you thinking more clearly now? Since you left the room where Alastair was kept?”

“Yes. Yes, almost immediately after Sam walked in, actually.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sam yells. “This whole thing was pointless. You understand that? The demons aren't doing the hits. Something else is killing your soldiers, Cas.”

“Perhaps Alastair was lying.”

Sam drives home his point, “No, he wasn't.”

Pushing between the angel and where I stand, Sam apologizes to me and makes certain that Castiel knows he is no longer welcome. He has been dismissed. Sam pushes past me and sits with his brother again.

“I have to go, Jane. I promise I will be back. I hope to have some answers for the questions I know you must have,” says the angel, almost seeking my blessing, I think. My benediction.

“Cas.”

“His brow raises at the endearment. “Yes?”

“So much about this is wrong. Be careful.”

He smiles and walks away, looking for a place where it is safe to fly.

We know that there are so few safe places anymore.

But one of those places is by Dean’s side, no matter where that my be. I shuffle back to my chair, suddenly so tired. So tired. I resume my position beside his heart, and drift asleep to the sounds of his beeping heartbeat, his hissing breaths, and the scuffle of nurses’ feet, under the watchful eyes of a man I’m not sure I know.

I awake once after a couple of hours when the doctor removes the breathing tube. I take this as an invitation to crawl into bed with my man. The nurses protest, but were suddenly silent when they saw the look on my face. The doctor spoke up, Sammy stood up, and that was the end of that. I awake again when Sam gets up and slips out the door, whispering in my sleepy direction that he is just going to eat. Then I snuggle so very carefully back up against the one or two unbruised patches of Dean and fall back to sleep.

This time I awake to the sound of my name.

“Jay,” Dean calls with great effort. “Baby, wake up. Are you okay?”

“Me? You’re worried about me? I’m fine, Dean. I’m perfect. Welcome back to consciousness, baby,” I tell him, kissing his face a lightly as I can.

“He didn’t hurt you?” He is so worried. I know this is not the right time to discuss his brother.

“No. He never touched me.”

Before anything else can be said, we hear wings.

“Are you alright, Dean?” Castiel asks from the chair where I once sat.”

“No thanks to you.” He’s so angry, blaming Cas like I knew he would. Honestly, he has the right. He should never have been in that damn room. It isn’t for me to take that anger from him.

“You need to be more careful.”

Dean snaps, “You need to learn how to manage a damn devil's trap.” For him, such a simple task.

“That's not what I mean. Uriel is dead.”

“Was it the demons?” I ask.

“It was disobedience. He was working against us. Jane, it was Uriel who clouded your mind. He didn’t want you to be of any help to Dean. It was he who caused the pipe to leak.”

“Winged dick bastard son of bitch,” Dean mutters. He’s still in there, protective, demanding, foul-mouthed. My Dean. “Is it true? Did I break the first seal? Did I start all this?”

We are both terrified to have our fears confirmed.

“Yes,” he replies in that even, deadpan way he has. “When we discovered Lilith's plan for you, we laid siege to hell and we fought our way to get to you before you—”

“Jump-started the apocalypse,” he finishes.

“Dean, stop it. It wasn’t your fault,” I try to reassure him, but he turns his bruised and cut face away from my comfort.

“And we were too late.”

“Why didn't you just leave me there, then?”

I have to get off the bed at that question. I’m afraid I’ll grab him and shake some fucking sense into him. “Don’t you say that. Don’t even say it!”

“It's not blame that falls on you, Dean, it's fate,” Cas explains quietly, gently. Then stiffens. “The righteous man who begins it is the only one who can finish it. You have to stop it.”

“Lucifer? The apocalypse? What does that mean? Hey! Don't you go disappearing on me, you son of a bitch. What does that mean!”

“I don't know.”

“Bullshit.”

Cas has to admit, “I don't. Dean, they don't tell me much. I know our fate rests with you.”

“Well, then you guys are screwed. I can't do it, Cas. It's too big. Alastair was right. I'm not all here. I'm not—I'm not strong enough. Well, I guess I'm not the man either of our dads wanted me to be. Find someone else. It's not me.”

The angel does not stay when Dean begins to lose it, when the tears he would never want anyone but me to see start falling. But I have to talk to the man that I have seen inside the angelic persona.

“He trusts you, Castiel,” I call out to him once I am well beyond Dean’s hearing behind his room door.

“You don’t?”

“I don’t know. I trust him,” I tell him. “I will always trust Dean.”

“As do I. But you accepted I was an angel much easier than Dean did when I first appeared to you. Yet you mistrust me now.”

“I don’t understand your motives.”

“I seek to stop Lilith from-”

“I get that part. I mean your motives toward Dean. Is he only your weapon? Is he only the means toward an end? Is he nothing more than the Righteous Man? Cas, you say you need him. But will you protect him?”

“Jane…”

“You feel regret. I can see it. But Dean is the one who is suffering. Are you willing to deserve the trust he places in you?”

And that’s the question that will take him a very long time to answer.

**Author's Note:**

> Drop a word or two, please. Don't be shy. Love it? Like it? Hate it? Share it!


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